Halfway To The Airport
by Shappeybunny
Summary: (Cabin Pressure). In which Arthur falls off the edge, and Martin does his best to be the friend he needs. It's a Martin/ Arthur friendship fic at heart with my usual mix of emotionally torturing the characters and humour. Plus bonus Drunk Arthur.
1. Chapter 1: The Night Visitor

**Chapter One: The Night Visitor**

Martin awoke in the dark and slowly became aware that someone was knocking on the door of his bedroom. He groped for the lamp and turned it on. The alarm clock showed twenty five minutes to one.

_"Hang on!" _he called out, and jumped out of bed and opened the door. One of the students from downstairs, Nina, a serious-faced girl dressed in heart-print pyjamas and thick glasses, was standing there with her arms folded across her chest. She did not look happy.

Martin blinked. None of the students ever came up to his room in the attic. On the very few occasions that one of them needed to speak to him, they would either stand at the bottom of the stairs and shout up, or just leave a little note in the kitchen.

"Hello?" he said uncertainly.

"One of your _friends_ is here to see you."

She said the word "friends" in the same slightly revolted way you might say, "One of your cats has poohed in my slipper".

Martin stared back at her blankly. "What do you mean?"

_None of my friends ever comes here. Not that I'm ashamed of where I live, but… I'm ashamed of where I live. And what friends, anyway?_

"I _mean_; one of your friends is here to see you. He woke me up," she added pointedly.

"Who is it?"

"How should _I_ know? He's _your _friend!"

Martin was getting properly annoyed now. "Alright, well, send him up then!"

Nina made a face. "I think it might be better if you come down."

"What do you mean; better? Just send him up!"

She turned and headed back downstairs without a reply.

"Oh, for God's _sake!"_

He let out an exasperated sigh, pulled on his dressing gown and slippers, and followed her back down the two flights of stairs to the hall. Someone was slumped on the bottom stair with his head buried in his knees. Pretty much the last someone Martin expected to see.

_"Arthur? _What on earth are _you_ doing here?"

Arthur didn't lift his head from his lap or show any sign that he had even heard. Martin had to half climb over him to get to the hall, whereupon he saw that his friend had obviously been in some sort of accident. Blood was seeping through a tear in his right trouser leg, and his right forearm was badly grazed.

"Arthur!" he exclaimed, "Oh, my g - what happened? Are you alright?"

"Nnngh," said Arthur in response.

Martin crouched down in front of him and gently lifted Arthur's head from his knees. There was another nasty graze on his cheek, but far worse than that was the unfocussed look in his eyes and the expression of misery on his usually cheerful face. If Martin didn't know any better, if he didn't know _Arthur_... there was only one conclusion to be drawn.

"Arthur, have you... you've not... have you been _drinking?_"

Arthur let his head bang into his knees again. "Nnn nnn feh ah ca," he mumbled.

"What? I can't understand you. What happened? How did you get these grazes?"

"Feh ah ca!"

Martin frowned. He hauled himself upright again, repeating Arthur's words in his head and trying to make sense of them. Not that anything about this situation made sense. Arthur didn't drink. Not in the same way that _Douglas_ "didn't drink"; he'd just never shown any interest in it.

"Flacker?" repeated Martin, with a helpless shrug. "I'm really sorry, I don't know what you're trying to say."

Arthur made a noise of frustration. "Fll ah ca! _Fll ah ca, fll ah ca, fll ah ca!_"

Oh.

"You _fell_ out of the _car?_"

"Yeh, goh ma fooh cawn seebel.'

Ah. Once you'd cracked the code, Arthur was suddenly a lot easier to understand.

"You got your foot caught in the seatbelt?"

"Swah I seh!"

Martin bit back a laugh. "Yes, that is indeed what you said, yes."

And then something occurred to him that made the smile freeze on his face.

"Arthur... did you... did you _drive_ here?"

"Yeh thass wha'm say -"

_Shit_. Maybe he wasn't drunk at all, maybe he was concussed. Maybe he'd just driven his car into a lamp-post. Maybe the reason he was slurring so badly was because he'd hit his head on the steering wheel and was even now bleeding internally, and - oh, _God!_

"Where's your car?" Martin demanded, trying to keep the rising panic from his voice. "Did you crash the car? _Where's your car, Arthur?_"

"Dn _shou_ ah me! Iss oussigh! Tole yuh, fll ah ca!"

"Yes, yes, I _know_ you fell out of the car," said Martin, impatiently, "I got that bit. What I'm asking is; where is it now?"

"Tole yuh, iss oussigh!"

"Outside. Oh, thank God. So you _didn't_ crash your car?"

"Nngh!"

The wave of relief that washed over Martin almost made his head swim. "Good. That's good. Give me your keys, then, and I'll go and check on it."

He watched, amused, as Arthur made repeated failed attempts to get his hand into his trouser pocket.

"Dno where mkeys," he mumbled.

"I _think_ they might be in your pocket, suggested Martin, trying not to laugh, "Shall I have a look?"

He leant down, patted Arthur's right trouser pocket, located his car keys, and removed them swiftly.

In the same moment Arthur tried to move out of his way, slipped sideways and headbutted the wall with such force it made Martin wince.

_"Ow!"_

"You alright?"

"Hih my heh."

"Yes, I heard. I bet that hurt, didn't it?"

"Unngh."

"Well, that's nothing to how much it's going to hurt tomorrow," Martin scolded him. "Honestly, Arthur, what on earth possessed you? And _drink-driving! _How can you have been so _stupid? _You're lucky not to have been killed. Or worse, you could have killed someone else. It's just such a monumentally stupid thing to do_. _I can only imagine what your Mum would say, although fortunately for you I'm not going to tell her, because I'm not a _masochist_. I'm sure somehow she'd manage to turn it around so it was all _my_ fault. I suppose that's why you've come _here_ rather than going home, is it?"

Arthur didn't have an answer. He was too busy trying to stop his head from sliding down the wall.

Martin shook his head. In the five years they had known each other, he had never seen Arthur drunk once. He had heard about the Peach Schnapps Incident, of course, mostly from the ashen-faced, hushed-voiced accounts of Douglas and Carolyn, but he assumed they were mostly exaggerating, as both of them were rather wont to do. And even then, Martin had imagined that an Arthur who had drunk alcohol was probably not much different to an Arthur who had drunk coffee; basically, his usual Tiggerish self, only slightly more... _slurry_.

Arthur was struggling to keep his eyes open, and Martin thought he would probably have to put him to bed on the sofa when he returned. That would be fun.

"I'm just going to check on your car, Arthur," he said aloud.

"Kay," murmured Arthur, into the wall.

Arthur's car was parked on the opposite side of the road, but facing the wrong way. He had somehow managed to park right next to a tree, which at least explained how he had got tangled up in the seatbelt trying to climb out of the passenger side and fallen out of the car. Martin walked around the car once to make sure there were no signs of an accident, but apart from the driver's door being not properly closed and what looked like a small dent where Arthur had opened it into the tree, there was nothing else obviously amiss. He pushed it shut, locked it, then checked all the door locks again, just to be sure. Finally, satisfied everything was okay, he went back inside.

"Everything's fine. There's a bit of a dent in the door, but - oh, _God_."

Arthur had been sick. There was some of it splattered down the wall, and quite a lot more down the front of his t-shirt and on his trousers. He was shivering and, Martin realised with shock, _crying_; an awful low keening wail of misery.

"It's alright," Martin told him, dismayed. He had never been good with this kind of thing - illness, crying, _fluids…_

The wailing got louder.

"Honestly, it's fine. We can clean it up. Actually, I think there's a bucket under the sink. Try not to be sick in the next ten seconds, I'll see if I can find it."

He'd never run twenty feet so fast in his life.

"Look what I found," he said, thrusting it into Arthur's arms five seconds later. "Fortunately I live with students, so there's a bucket for just such occasions. Look, it's even a yellow one. Arthur. Arthur, look; _yellow bucket_."

Arthur coughed and dribbled sick down his chin. He really did look dreadful. His face was clammy and tear-stained, and his hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat. He clung onto the bucket as though it was the only thing keeping him upright, let his forehead rest against the wall and closed his eyes, his lips moving silently.

Martin reached out his hand and patted Arthur's shoulder awkwardly. It was difficult to get any nearer without risking getting sick on his pyjamas. This close, Martin could smell the alcohol mixed in with the vomit, something sweet and sickly that made him recoil a couple of feet. What the hell had he even been _drinking?_

He repeated the question to Arthur, who just mumbled something incomprehensible in response.

"I hope this isn't the Peach Schnapps Incident all over again," joked Martin, weakly.

"Ah ee."

"What?"

With tremendous effort Arthur managed to lift his head from the wall and focus on Martin, standing three feet in front of him.

_"Andy!"_

"Andy? Who's Andy?"

"Fuh th shh."

"What?"

"Iss wha ya spa ta gih fuh shh."

"Sorry, Arthur, but those aren't words."

"Mum seh mon cor."

_Aha! _Finally, a word that Martin recognised!

"Mum? Mum what?"

"Mum seh meon cor… cor… a course."

Martin laughed out loud. "Ok, Arthur, I'm pretty sure I must have misheard, but did you just say, _"Mum sent me on a course_"?"

Arthur nodded, the slow careful nod of a man who is afraid his head will fall off.

"Excellent. This evening is getting more and more surreal. Well, I suppose I'm going to have to guess. Let's see... was it a course in how to get really, really drunk and then fall out of your own car?"

"Nngh. Mer… mer… ger see meh all pra see ger. Ipswich."

It really was incredible how Arthur's alcohol-sodden brain managed to get out one entirely comprehensible word for every twenty incomprehensible ones. And that that word should be _Ipswich_.

"Say that again, Arthur. I think I _nearly_ actually understood you that time..."

"Merger…see… meh hall… praseeger..."

"Emergency Medical Procedures! I did that course too! Excellent, I'm getting really good at this game! What about it?"

"Bb... bb... Andy!"

"Yes, you mentioned him already. I still don't know who he is, I'm afraid. Was he the instructor on the course?"

"Bb.. brr... brr... andy..."

"Oh, God. _Please_ tell me you didn't break into the Portakabin and drink the medicinal brandy."

"Din bray'n. Goh keys."

"Ah, of _course_ you have. And that will make all the difference when Carolyn finds out, I'm sure."

Arthur let out a sob and tried to bury his face in the wall again.

"I'm joking!" Martin told him hurriedly, "Come on, you didn't _really_ think I'd tell your Mum, did you? Although I can't see how she won't find out. I mean; look at the _state_ of you."

"Da duh," mumbled Arthur, into the wall.

"What?"

"Da… da…"

"I'm not your Dad, Arthur. Frankly, I'm a _teensy_ bit offended that you got us confused."

"Nngh, nngh... da... drr... drr.."

One step forward, two steps back. Arthur seemed to have lost the the ability to use vowels now. Martin sighed and rubbed his face, forgetting he was still holding Arthur's car keys in his hand and nearly jabbing himself in the eye. He suddenly felt very tired indeed.

"Come on, Arthur, it's late, and I need to go to bed. I'll get you a blanket and you can sleep it off on the sofa, alright? I'll get you a clean t-shirt as well. And if you don't mind, I'll keep hold of your car keys. Don't want you trying to drive home after the amount of brandy you've drunk."

Brandy.

For the shock.

_That's _what they'd taught him on the Emergency Medical Procedures course in Ipswich. _That's_ what Arthur was trying to tell him. Something must have happened, and Arthur had somehow remembered his medical training, driven to the airfield where they kept the emergency supplies, and - well, _prescribed himself brandy_... Once an airline steward...

Immediately Martin felt guilty for ever thinking this was funny. Falling out of his own car was absolutely the sort of idiotic thing he would expect Arthur to do. Getting paralytically drunk on the medicinal brandy from the Portakabin and then driving to Martin's house in the middle of the night was absolutely not. This wasn't just unlike Arthur, it was completely and utterly out of character. Why hadn't Martin realised sooner that something was wrong?

"Arthur," he said fearfully, "Has... has something happened?"

"Da drr... da..."

Martin frowned. _"Dad?"_

Oh dear. If Gordon Shappey was involved somehow, this could not be good news. For anyone.

"What about your dad? Has he been causing trouble again? Oh, God. Did he _do_ something? To your mum? Or you?"

"Nngh... nngh..."

"Arthur -"

"Da drr... _died_..."

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_

_Thanks for reading, and I hope you liked my first ever Cabin Pressure story. It's going to get a little angsty, as you would expect, but it's really a friendship fic at heart. This is the first chapter of 5, and I have half-written the other chapters, so I promise you won't be kept hanging on for a year to find out how it ends. It would be brilliant if you were able to leave a review. Ta muchly!_

_- Shappeybunny _


	2. Chapter 2: Fine, Not Fine

**Chapter 2: Fine, Not Fine**

It took much longer than it should have to get Arthur upstairs to the bathroom, as he couldn't stand without help. When they reached the door, his knees finally gave way and he sank to the floor, almost pulling Martin down with him. It took Martin a couple of seconds to fumble for the light, by which time Arthur had dived across the tiny room and vomited noisily into the nearest receptacle.

_"Not the bath!" _exclaimed Martin, "Oh, too late..."

"Sorry," gasped Arthur.

"Never mind," said Martin, grimly. "Better the bath than the floor, I suppose."

Martin hadn't realised it was possible for one person to contain that much vomit. It seemed to go on forever. There was nothing to do but hold Arthur up over the bath and make sympathetic noises and try not to breathe through his nose.

"Make it stop," pleaded Arthur, miserably, after an hour of this.

"I can't. You've just got to wait until it's all come up."

Arthur let out a sob, started to say something in reply, and promptly threw up again.

Martin patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. He remembered the last time he was sick; a particularly bad bout of food poisoning in a hotel in Shanghai. It was always in hotels, one of those unwelcome perks of travelling for a living. Fortunately he wasn't sharing a room that night, it being one of those rare occasions Douglas had lost the coin toss over who got to share with Arthur.

He suddenly realised they had been tossing a coin for who had to share with Arthur for three years. Arthur never got a room to himself, and he never complained about it. Actually, now that Martin thought about it, he realised something else too. Arthur had never once mentioned his dad in all the time they'd known each other, apart from in St Petersburg, of course, but never before and not since. They saw each other several times a week, and had shared a room more times than Martin could count. Martin knew he talked about his dad a lot - things reminded him of his father every day - but Arthur never did. Why hadn't he noticed that before now? Carolyn was a very private person, and seemed to have difficult, fractious relationships with several of her relatives, which might explain why she didn't wish to discuss them. But Arthur was not Carolyn. Arthur was the opposite of guarded. He would happily talk to anyone about anything. If he hadn't mentioned his dad in three years, it must be because he didn't _want_ to talk about him.

Arthur gave a low moan. "I'm never drinking again…"

"I don't doubt it."

"Next time I get a shock I'll stick to pineapple juice."

There was a loaded silence.

"Uh... Arthur, I... I'm sorry about your dad."

"Yeah," said Arthur, heavily, closing his eyes.

Another long silence, then:

"That's the thing, though."

Martin frowned. "What is?"

No answer.

"What's the thing, Arthur?"

Arthur mumbled something Martin couldn't hear.

"What? Sorry, I can't -"

"Head spinning..."

"Oh!" said Martin, alarmed, "Do you need to -"

"Lie down," mumbled Arthur, and he keeled over sideways before Martin could catch him and slumped to the floor, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the toilet bowl.

"Oh, dear. Are you alright? You're not going to...?"

Arthur took an age to answer. He curled into the foetal position and pressed his forehead thankfully to the cold porcelain. "... Nngh..." was all he managed to say.

Martin waited, but no further response seemed to be forthcoming. For a second he thought Arthur had fallen asleep.

"Arthur?" he asked, tentatively.

"... yeah...?"

"Can I help with anything?"

"... mm... just gonna... lie here... for a... bit..."

"OK, then."

Martin sighed, extricated his rapidly-numbing foot from under Arthur's leg, and hauled himself upright, feeling his knees creak as he did so. There was no room to sit anywhere except on the toilet, and nothing to do but be alone with his thoughts and wait.

He wasn't good with illness then either. Mum had done most of the day-to-day caring. Of course, he wasn't living at home, but Fitton was only a two hour drive from Wokingham, if you were lucky with the traffic on the M40. He could have gone home more. _Should_ have gone home more. At first it was every weekend, then every other weekend, then once a month, then less often. Illness was something you got used to, and in Dad's case it dragged on for so long it became part of normal life. You forgot that terror you felt when he first got the diagnosis. Yes, Dad had cancer, but he didn't seem to be actually dying. You had to get on with your life, go home, go back to work, try and carry on as normal.

Then, one day, that early morning phone call you'd been expecting and dreading all along, the hollow sound of Mum's voice when she told you there had been "a turn for the worse", speeding down the motorway as the sun rose, praying to a God you didn't believe in that you wouldn't be too late. Hushed voices, grey faces, endless cups of bloody tea, sitting in silence by his bedside, waiting, waiting… then the falling into unconsciousness, and two days later, one bright, sunny June morning, the end.

Arthur coughed and rolled over onto his back, startling Martin out of his reverie. His eyes fluttered open and then closed again. He really did look terrible. His lips were crusted with dried vomit, his skin was clammy and pale, and the graze on his cheek looked even worse under the harsh yellow light in the bathroom.

Martin remembered he was going to try and treat Arthur's grazes. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and got to his feet.

"Arthur, I'm just going to step over you, alright?"

"Don't tread on me."

Martin smiled to himself. "Don't worry, I won't."

He stepped carefully over Arthur, opened the medicine cabinet on the wall above the sink, and frowned. Some of the bottles looked like they'd been here since the last lot of students. There was an inch left in an ancient-looking bottle of TCP; it was two years out of date, but it would have to do. He emptied out his toothbrush mug, rinsed it thoroughly, then tipped in the TCP and diluted it with two thirds cold water as instructed on the bottle.

"I'm just going to put some antiseptic on your leg."

"Nnggh."

Martin crouched down next to Arthur and pushed his left trouser leg up to the knee. It was sticky with dried blood, and Arthur flinched and cried out as it tore away from his skin.

"Sorry!"

He cleaned the grazed area with a damp piece of toilet paper, then dabbed on the antiseptic. The graze on Arthur's arm was worse; Martin supposed he must have put his hand out to stop himself falling and landed on it. The sting of the antiseptic made Arthur wince.

"Sorry," said Martin, again.

The graze on his cheek looked particularly nasty. Martin felt the rasp of day-old stubble beneath the damp tissue and wondered why he should be surprised. It was easy to forget that Arthur wasn't actually a child, even if he acted like one a lot of the time. He was only three years younger than Martin himself. Arthur's foot twitched and Martin realised his ministrations had started the bleeding again.

"You need a bandage," he observed aloud.

"First aid cupboard," mumbled Arthur, helpfully.

"We're not on the plane, Arthur. I don't have any bandages."

Arthur was silent for a moment, then: "Sock."

"What?"

"In 'mer'gersee, use a sock. Cut off the foot. Not _my_ foot!"

Not a bad idea. He glanced at Arthur. He seemed to be alright for the time being. Well, not alright, very far from alright, but at least he seemed to have stopped throwing up, so wasn't likely to accidentally choke to death while Martin was out of the room. And the sounds he made were mostly recognisable as words, which was a distinct improvement on earlier.

He hurried upstairs, grabbed a couple of t-shirts, a pair of old socks and some scissors, and a clean pair of tracksuit trousers for Arthur - he didn't think his pyjamas would fit him, and these were made of a stretchy cotton material so should do the job nicely - and was back in the bathroom within the minute.

With the feet removed, the socks served very well as tube bandages on Arthur's leg and arm. Carolyn ought to be pleased that the five hundred pounds each she had paid for her crew to go on the Emergency Medical Procedures course in Ipswich had proved worthwhile. Mind you, if he hadn't been on the course and learnt what to give people for shock, Arthur wouldn't have drunk the brandy in the first place, and thus wouldn't have fallen out of his car, wouldn't have injured himself, and wouldn't have required the makeshift sock bandages. Hmm, maybe it was best not to mention it to Carolyn after all…

"Arthur," he said loudly, "I've brought some clean clothes for you."

Arthur didn't move.

"Which one do you want? Red or blue?"

Arthur mumbled something incomprehensible into the bathroom floor.

"Good choice," said Martin. "The red one it is. That one's a bit baggier than the blue one, as it happens, so it should fit you a bit better as well."

He changed his own t-shirt quickly, and dropped the soiled one into the sink. Arthur still hadn't moved.

"Come on, Arthur."

No response.

"Come on, you can't lie there all night covered in sick."

A minute passed.

"Arthur, are you awake?"

"Nn."

"I'm going to take that as a yes. Can you sit up?"

There was a pause, then with tremendous effort Arthur managed to drag his foot about an inch closer to the door. His fingers clawed uselessly at the tile for a few seconds then stopped. Martin waited, but that seemed to be all the movement he was capable of at the moment. He sighed. Well, there was nothing else for it, then.

He crouched down beside Arthur and pulled the hem of his t-shirt away from his body - Arthur's arm immediately flailed upwards and whacked him in the chin - then used his other hand to try and pull it upwards over Arthur's head without getting any vomit on himself. Of course, it would have made more sense to have changed his clothes afterwards, but it was too late now. Eventually, after a lot of tugging, and no help whatsoever from Arthur, it joined Martin's t-shirt in the sink. Getting the clean one on was a lot quicker – he just gripped Arthur's arms firmly by the wrist and forced them through the armholes. It was rather like stuffing a Guy.

He took a deep breath. Right, now for the difficult bit. He'd never had to remove another man's trousers before. In fact, as the younger brother, he had usually been the one who'd had to suffer unwanted trouser removal himself. He reminded himself that of all people, Arthur was the least likely to find anything remotely weird in this situation. Not that that helped.

"I'm really, _really_ sorry about this, Arthur."

Right. Shoes first, then, _oh dear_, trousers… He didn't know if it made things better or worse that Arthur was basically unconscious, but it was a lot easier than changing his t-shirt had been, mainly because Arthur's arms weren't flailing about hitting Martin in the face.

When it was done he sank back against the edge of the bath and closed his eyes, exhausted. He needed his bed, and he needed it now. The next scheduled flight was the day after tomorrow, but he needed at least one decent night's sleep before then. At least it was only a small job. Just a quick hop across the Channel to Le Touquet, taking a rich middle-aged couple on a day trip for their silver wedding anniversary. Carolyn could do the cabin crew part on her own quite easily. Well, she'd have to, because Arthur was unlikely to be in any sort of fit state to work.

"Arthur, I'm going to help you get upstairs so you can lie down properly, alright? You can't lie on the bathroom floor all night. Well, you probably can, but it's not a very good idea."

No response.

"I just need you awake for the next two minutes, then you can sleep as long as you like, OK?"

Arthur made a noise of acknowledgement, but didn't move or open his eyes.

Martin lifted Arthur's arm over his shoulder, braced himself against the edge of the bath, and managed to haul him into a sitting position. Arthur was both taller and heavier than Martin, so getting him upright was not going to be easy.

"_Please_, Arthur. Help me out here, will you?"

Somehow, he managed to half-push, half-drag Arthur up the stairs to the attic, one step at a time, then drop him onto the bed where he lay unmoving, his feet still hanging off the edge. Martin grabbed his ankles and heaved his legs up onto the bed. Arthur muttered something to himself, then rolled over onto his side and was snoring within moments, clutching the pillow to his chest like a teddy bear.

Martin went back to fetch the bucket to put it by Arthur's head, just in case, then tugged the duvet from under his body and arranged it over him. He didn't like to leave him alone, but there were things he needed to do before he could get some sleep himself.

The sight of the bathroom almost made him retch, but better to grit his teeth and do it now than have to face it again in the morning. That would not be a happy wake-up call. He wrapped his and Arthur's dirty clothes up in the bath mat and took them downstairs, holding them as far away from his body as he could, shoved everything into the washing machine (although frankly those trousers were going to need incinerating), turned it on, and then set about cleaning the stairs, the bath, and the bathroom floor. Again, all of which he should probably have done _before_ he put a nice clean t-shirt on.

Finally, it was all done and he stumbled exhausted back to his room, barely getting through the door before he was startled by the loud _drr-drr_ of his phone vibrating on the bedside table. He picked it up, frowning. 3.47 a.m. Dazedly, he wondered who could possibly be calling him at this time of the morning.

You have… 17 missed calls.

Oh, _shit._

You have… 5 new answerphone messages.

You have… 8 new text messages.

He didn't need to listen to the messages to know who they were from, but scrolled through them anyway, just to be sure. As he suspected, mostly from Carolyn, but there were also a couple of texts from Douglas, whom he guessed she must have woken up when she couldn't get hold of Martin, and a missed call from a number he didn't recognise. Heaving a sigh, he took the phone back downstairs to the living room, made himself a cup of tea to brace himself for the difficult conversation he was about to have, and pressed redial.

The phone was picked up so quickly it barely had time to ring. Expecting Carolyn, Martin was rather thrown to hear a man's voice answer. For a moment he thought that in his exhaustion he must have dialled the wrong number.

"Hello?"

"Er… hello? I'm sorry, who is this?"

"Herc Shipwright."

"Oh, of course. Hello, Herc. It's Martin."

"Yes, I know. Talk to me."

"Yes, sorry. Well, Arth-"

There was a commotion at the other end of the phone before he could say anything useful. He could hear Herc arguing with Carolyn in the background.

"_For God's sake, Carolyn, I am not giving you the phone while you're driving. No. Yes, I know. I don't care. Yes, well, you won't be any use to Arthur if you crash the car, will you?"_

He came back on the line again. "Sorry about that. _No_, _Carolyn._ Talk to me, Martin."

"Yes, well, I was just saying, Arth-"

Another commotion, then a few moments of silence followed by the sound of two people wrestling with a mobile phone - Martin guessed Carolyn had pulled over to the side of the road - then Carolyn's voice, shouting into the phone so loudly that Martin had to hold the receiver away from his ear.

"_Arthur?_ Where the _hell _have you been? You left your phone on the kitchen table!"

"Carolyn -"

"Herc and I have been driving around Fitton for nearly _three hours!"_

"Carolyn -"

"I mean, they do still have phone boxes, you know! Why didn't you -"

"Carolyn. _Carolyn! _It's not Arthur, it's Martin. He is here, though. At my house. With me," he added unnecessarily.

"Oh, thank God! Is he alright? No, of course he's not alright, you stupid woman. He's in one piece, though?"

_After a fashion._ Probably best not to mention the bottle of misappropriated brandy, the vomiting, the crying, the falling out of his own car, or the drink-driving through Fitton in the middle of the night. Or, indeed, the fact that he had been at Martin's house for three hours and it had not once occurred to him to ring Carolyn and let her know her son was OK.

"Yes, he's fine. Well, not _fine -_"

"Let me talk to him."

"Well, he's actually asleep, so -"

_"How should I know, it's a street with houses on!"_

It took Martin a moment to realise that Carolyn was talking to Herc again.

"Alright, Martin, we're coming over. Should be about ten minutes, if Herc can work out where we are. _No, the satnav doesn't work; there's a map in the glovebox. Oh, for God's _-"

"Actually, Carolyn, there's really no need. He's asleep now. No point waking him up, is there? Why don't you go home and get some sleep yourself and I can drive him back myself in the morning."

A long silence greeted this suggestion, and Martin wondered anxiously he hadn't overstepped the mark. Carolyn was still his boss, after all.

"Oh, well, I suppose that makes - _no, forget about that now, we're not going to Martin's anymore._ _No, he's fine. Well, obviously not fine -"_

"Carolyn -"

"Hello, Martin? Are you still there?"

"Yes, I'm still here."

"Thank you. And please, tell Arthur -"

He heard the distinctly unsettling sound of her voice breaking on the last word, followed by a car door slamming, then silence. After a few moments, Herc's voice came back on the line, sounding as unflappably calm as ever.

"Hello, Martin. Carolyn just needed a bit of air. I'm going to take her home now."

"Oh. OK. Yes, of course."

"Arthur's not really alright, is he?"

"No. Not really. Not at all, actually."

"Yes, I rather suspected as much. Look, Martin... if you need any help, even if it's in the middle of the night, call me. Don't call Carolyn. Call _me_."

"I will, Herc. Thanks."

"No, thank _you_ for all your help tonight. We both appreciate it very much."

"No problem," Martin told him, just as gratefully, and Herc hung up.

Martin pressed _End Call_, and sat there for several minutes feeling rather shell-shocked. He couldn't get the sound of Carolyn's voice on the phone out of his head. She was always so controlled. Even when they'd had that bird strike in St Petersburg and thought it was the end of MJN, she had been her usual matter of fact self, announcing "Sorry, boys, it's all over," in the same tone she might have used to tell them they had run out of tea bags. Tonight though, she'd sounded utterly distraught, and he doubted very much it was because she was all cut up over Gordon's death. Arthur was thirty years old going on eleven, but he would always be Carolyn's little boy, and she would always worry about him.

He thought about how Herc, who was Arthur's mum's boyfriend of less than two years, cared about him more than his real dad ever seemed to. He hoped for both their sakes that Herc stuck around, even though Douglas might not be too happy about it. The thought made him chuckle out loud, and then reminded him that Douglas was probably also up and awake and just as worried as Carolyn. Martin texted him quickly - "_Arthur's fine, at my house - M"_, and got the immediate answer back _"Thanks, tell him I'm thinking of him, see you Tuesday" _- then took two glasses of water back up to his room. He felt absolutely shattered.

The object of everyone's concern was lying sprawled across Martin's bed, his sock-bandaged foot sticking out from under the duvet, dead to the world. Martin put the glasses carefully down on the bedside table, and as he did so, his phone slipped from under his arm and hit the hard floorboards with a thud.

Arthur made a muffled noise of protest from the bed.

"Sorry," said Martin, "Go back to sleep."

Arthur opened his eyes groggily, lifted his head an inch and blinked at Martin. "Whassappnin?"

"It's alright. Go back to sleep."

"Whereyougonnaslee?"

Martin hadn't quite thought that far ahead. He could take a blanket downstairs and attempt to get some sleep on the sofa, but he didn't want to leave Arthur alone, especially as he'd be two floors away and Martin wouldn't be able to hear if anything happened. He couldn't sleep on the floor because of his bad back. But then the only other option was to - well, _sleep with Arthur_, which would be weird and uncomfortable, even though he knew Arthur wouldn't find it weird at all. That kind of thing probably wouldn't even cross his mind, in fact.

"I'll be fine on the floor," he said, reluctantly, and his back gave a little twinge, as if in protest at the very idea.

"I'll sleep on the floor," said Arthur at once.

"No, you won't. You'll stay where you are. You're not well."

"I don't mind."

"I know, but I do."

"I _like_ sleeping on the floor!" protested Arthur. He attempted to push himself into a sitting position but couldn't manage it, and collapsed back onto the bed, gasping with the effort.

Martin frowned. "Well... I suppose we could always top and tail."

"_Tail?" _repeated Arthur, looking thoroughly confused. Martin guessed he was picturing something cute and furry.

"Sleep at each end," he explained, "So our feet are by each other's heads. My brother and I used to top and tail when we were kids. We used to pretend we were camping."

Arthur managed the first smile Martin had seen him give all night. "Aw, that sounds nice. I always wanted a brother." He yawned widely. "W-well, no, I wanted a sister. Well, no, I wanted a dog really, but a s-sister would have been nice as well…"

Martin picked up the spare pillow and moved it to the other end of the bed - Arthur heaved himself over with difficulty to make more room - and climbed awkwardly under the covers.

It was immediately hot. He was not used to sharing his bed, and certainly not with another man. It was quite a lot different top-and-tailing with Arthur than it used to be with Simon. Arthur took up a lot more of the bed, for a start. And the thing about top-and-tailing that he hadn't really considered before now was that your... _bits_... were still in the middle. _God_. He hoped Arthur wasn't a wriggler. Or, worse, a snuggler. Maybe he'd have been better off on the floor after all...

It was his last conscious thought. When he next awoke it was morning, and light was streaming in through the skylight. He stared at the wall for a few moments, confused by the unfamiliar view of his room from the wrong end of the bed, then realised there was a warm body lying next to his and remembered.

"Arthur?"

Arthur didn't reply, and Martin listened to the sound of his breathing for almost a minute before he was reassured he was only sleeping. He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep himself, but sleep wouldn't come. His single duvet wasn't big enough to cover both of them, and consequently his back was hot but his limbs were freezing. Eventually he gave up, slipped out of bed, pulled on warm socks and a jumper, and padded downstairs to make himself a coffee. After half a cup he felt ready to tackle emptying the machine and hanging up the washing in the back yard. Usually he would hang it on the folding plastic dryer in his room, but he didn't want to wake Arthur, and anyway, this particular load of laundry could do with a good airing.

The second wave of exhaustion hit him soon after, and he made a cup of tea for Arthur - lots of milk, three sugars - then headed back upstairs, stifling a yawn. He had barely got to the top of the first flight before he heard Arthur's voice calling out in a panic:

"Skip! _Skip!_ _Martin!_"

Martin raced up the stairs as fast as he could manage whilst carrying a hot cup of tea. Arthur was awake and sitting up in bed; he turned to Martin wide-eyed with confusion.

"These aren't my trousers!"

Martin bit back a laugh. "No, they're not. That's not your t-shirt either."

_"What?"_ gasped Arthur, glancing down. "Oh, no! You're right! Whose is it?"

"Mine. Don't you remember? You were sick down yourself, so I had to, um…" - he felt himself flushing at the memory -"… put some clean clothes on you. Yours are drying on the line."

"Oh, okay, then," said Arthur, instantly reassured. "Thanks, Sk - _Martin_."

"You're welcome. And by the way, since when did you call me Martin?"

Arthur looked confused. "Oh, well, I thought... you're Skip on the plane because you're the Captain, but you're not Captain in your house." He frowned, as if he wasn't quite sure whether this was true. "_Are_ you?"

"No, I'm not Captain in my house. You can still call me Skip, though, if you want. I… I like it."

Arthur beamed at him, and for a moment he was the old Arthur again. Martin wondered if he had not exactly _forgotten_ what happened yesterday, because it wasn't possible to forget something like that, just not quite _realised_ yet.

"Oh. I brought you a cup of tea."

"Thanks," said Arthur, taking it from him gratefully.

Martin sat down carefully at the other end of the bed.

"So how are you feeling?"

Arthur considered for a moment. "Heavy."

_"Heavy?"_

Arthur lifted his arm about three inches off the bed and let it drop again. "Heavy. Like all my limbs really, _really_ want to lie down."

"Ah. And how's your head?"

"Umm… well, you know when you come home from a long flight and you've got jet-lag but then you get a cold as well?"

_"Ah."_

"Well, a bit like that..."

"Oh, dear."

"... only worse."

"I'm not surprised."

"How do I look?" asked Arthur, hopefully.

Martin looked at him. A livid green-black bruise stood out dark against the sickly pallor of his skin, his hair was sticking up in tufts on one side of his head, his trousers were much too short for him, and he was wearing a couple of bits of old sock as makeshift bandages. The one on his leg was crusted with dried blood. He looked as though he was on day-release from some sort of drying-out centre for homeless alcoholics, and the clothes were the best available from a bin-bag of charity donations. The honest answer was "Awful", but Martin didn't think it would help.

"Like you drank a bottle of brandy and fell out of a car, funnily enough."

"Oh, well, that's exactly what _did_ happen, so I suppose it's not surprising really."

"Well, _yes_," said Martin, dryly. "That was sort of my _point_." He scrutinised Arthur for a moment. "How come you don't drink, Arthur?"

"Oh, I just don't really like the taste of it."

"Fair enough."

"I mean, it's a bit like, why would you eat _sprouts_ when _chocolate_ exists?"

"_Ye-es_. it's not _quite_ the same, though. A lot of people do really like the taste of beer."

"Yeah," said Arthur, warming to his subject now, "But why would you drink beer when pineapple juice tastes much nicer? I mean; _urgh!_ Beer's _horrible!_"

"Well... there are _other_ things you could drink that taste nicer than beer."

"Ooh, I know, I had Mint Baileys once, it was lovely! Like a milkshake. And Peach Schnapps, but Mum says I'm not allowed to have that anymore." He frowned. "Anyway, it's not just the taste... I don't like how some people get when they've been drinking."

Martin nodded. He couldn't help wondering if Arthur meant his dad, the legendary connoisseur of expensive gin. Not that Gordon needed alcohol to make him obnoxious; he was unpleasant enough when sober. _Was _being the operative word, he reminded himself, guiltily.

Of course, he could just as easily have meant the numerous customers who turned into demanding, rampaging monsters after one glass of wine at 30,000 feet. Like the hen party they'd flown to Tallinn last week, who seemed to believe that, as they were flying on a small private plane and had paid a large sum of money for the privilege, they were entitled to spend the entire flight sexually harassing the steward. Large single-sex groups were always the worst. Even Douglas had declined to venture into the cabin on that occasion, and Arthur's belief that people were basically nice had been severely tested.

_"Oh!"_ exclaimed Arthur, frantically patting his trouser pockets. "Oh, no! Where's my - I've lost my -"

"Not your trousers," Martin reminded him. "What have you lost?"

"My phone. I should ring Mum. She won't know where I am. She'll be worried."

"You left your phone on the kitchen table, and no, she won't; I rang her last night."

Arthur gaped at Martin as though he had just performed a particularly impressive magic trick. "_Did_ you? _When?_ And how did you _know_ that?"

"About four o'clock in the morning, and because she _told_ me. She and Herc were driving around Fitton looking for you. She wanted to talk to you, but you were asleep."

"Oh," said Arthur, flatly. He stared down into his cup for a few moments, cradling his hands around its warmth. "I like Herc. He's nice."

"Yeah, he is. Do you think he and your mum will get married?"

Arthur shrugged. "Dunno. Mum's always said she doesn't want to get married again."

"Well, they could always just live together. There's no reason to get married these days if you don't want to."

"Yeah," said Arthur distractedly. "Um, Skip...?"

"Mm?"

"I… I'm really sorry about last night."

"Don't be silly. I'm glad I could help."

"I was sick in your bath."

"Well, fortunately, Arthur, baths are very easy to clean."

Arthur sighed and rubbed his face, forgetting about the graze on his cheek. He winced.

_"Ow!"_

Martin frowned. "I should have put a plaster on that."

"Oh, yeah. You could have used another sock!"

"I'm not sure how a _sock_ would have fit over your _face_, Arthur."

As usual, Martin's sarcasm went right over Arthur's head.

"Well, maybe if it was a really _big_ sock. Like a Christmas stocking. Or those ones burglars wear in cartoons!"

"_Tights?"_ suggested Martin.

They both laughed, then a dark cloud seemed to pass over Arthur's face and he looked as though everything had suddenly hit him at once.

Martin wondered if this was the moment to bring up the subject of Arthur's dad. Last night he had been in no condition to discuss it, but he had obviously come here for a reason, and that reason was probably the second thing they now had in common apart from their shared childhood dream to become a pilot. He wasn't convinced it was a good idea to remind him, but he had to say _something_. He couldn't go on avoiding the subject indefinitely. Maybe Arthur really wanted to talk about it, and was just waiting for the opportunity.

"Arthur, I... I just wanted to say... I... I'm really sorry about your dad."

Arthur's foot gave an involuntary twitch, but otherwise he didn't respond or react in any way.

"Can I ask... you don't have to tell me... what happened?"

Arthur swallowed hard and stared fixedly into his tea. "Um..."

"Sorry."

"No, it's... he... it was a heart attack. He was, er… at the airport. In Johannesburg. He just keeled over."

"Oh, God! I'm so sorry. Still, I suppose at least it was quick. _Was_ it quick? Sorry, that doesn't make it any better at all, does it? God, what a stupid thing to say. Shut _up_, Martin! Sorry. _Sorry!_"

Arthur's shoulders began to heave, and his breathing became shallow and erratic. He wasn't crying, his eyes were dry; he was just gasping for air.

Martin didn't know what to do. If they were on the plane, he could have fetched one of the paper sickbags and made Arthur take slow, deep breaths into it. Something else they had learned on the Emergency Medical Procedures course in Ipswich. He knew what he _should_ do; he should go over there, put his arms around his friend, and let him cry on his shoulder, but somehow, because they were on - _in -_ Martin's bed, he couldn't move. Hating himself, he reached over and took the teacup from Arthur's shaking hand. It was all he could do.

It was several long minutes before Arthur's breathing finally returned to normal. "Sorry," he mumbled, wiping his dry eyes with the back of his hand.

"Oh, God, Arthur, you don't need to apologise for _any_thing."

Arthur nodded distractedly, He picked up his teacup and put it down again, then looked at Martin in anguish.

"I don't know what to do," he said, in a cracked voice. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Come on," said Martin, softly. "I'll take you home."

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it. Please leave a review if you can; it's always greatly appreciated, and frankly at the moment I have no idea whether there are even any Cabin Pressure fans on FFnet, and whether I'm wasting my time posting my stories here or should just stick to Archive Of Our Own. There's no hit counter anymore so I don't know if even a single person has read this. So if anyone IS reading this story, please let me know!

_**A note on dates:**_

Originally I wrote that Arthur and Martin had known each other for five years (since that's as long as the series has been running), but then realised that Arthur is 28 1/2 in episode 5 of Series 1 (Edinburgh), but still only "nearly 30" at the end of Series 3 (St Petersburg), so the series isn't being played out in real time. This story is set almost a year after St Petersburg, which makes Arthur nearly 31. Martin has been working at MJN less than a year at the start of the series, so that means they've only known each other three years.

_**Next episode: **_

Le Touquet. Less vomiting, more Douglas.

And finally, for non-Brit readers; "stuffing a Guy" -  wiki/Guy_Fawkes_Night


	3. Chapter 3: Le Touquet

**Chapter Three: Le Touquet**

When Martin arrived at the airfield on Tuesday morning, he was surprised to find Arthur in the galley, chopping lemons.

"Oh! Hello, Arthur."

Arthur glanced up, met Martin's gaze with puffy, red-rimmed eyes, then looked quickly away again.

"Hello," he mumbled.

Martin sought out Carolyn in the cabin. "What's Arthur doing here?" he demanded, furiously. "Didn't you tell him not to come? We don't need two cabin staff to serve two people on a fifty minute flight!"

"And a good morning to you too," said Carolyn, levelly. "Of course I told him not to come, but he insisted. I suspect he probably didn't want to be at home on his own all day. Is that alright with you?"

"Uh – yes. Yes, of course. It's fine. How's he doing?"

A tight smile. "Honestly? Barely holding things together."

"Oh."

"He's not – he's not really talking about it. Which, as you know, for _Arthur_, is..."

"Unusual?"

"Well... yes."

* * *

When Douglas arrived, Martin quickly updated him on the events of the other night, and Douglas listened in grim-faced silence, not even managing to raise a smile when Martin told him about Arthur falling out of his own car. Usually something like that would have provided teasing material for _weeks._ Once they were airborne, the atmosphere in the flight deck remained unusually sober and subdued. Neither man said as much, but they were both expecting the usual visit from Arthur with the tea tray at any moment, and it didn't seem right to be caught joking around. Half an hour into the flight with still no sign of Arthur, Douglas leaned over and turned on the intercom.

_"Arthur, if you're not too busy, the pilots would quite like some coffee some time before we actually land."_

"That should do it," he said to Martin.

Arthur appeared a few minutes later, silent and miserable. He didn't look at either of them, just put the drinks in their cup holders, mumbled "Coffee," ("Thank you, Arthur," said Martin) and then "Tea", and turned to leave again.

"Thank you, Arthur. _Arthur_ -" tried Douglas, but it was too late, he'd gone.

"Oh, dear," said Martin reaching for his coffee. "Perhaps he'll feel a bit better when we get to Le Touquet. It's supposed to be quite n_urgh!_ It's _cold!_"

"Well, I suppose in the circumstances..."

"No, I mean, it's stone cold. It's been made with cold water."

Douglas picked up his cup and sipped it tentatively. "Oh, dear. So it has. Arthur must have forgotten to boil the kettle. Oh, well, I suppose we'll just have to pretend it's iced coffee. I believe that's a thing now."

"You've got cold tea."

"Well… iced tea is definitely also a thing."

"Not with milk in it!"

"Oh, stop complaining, we'll be landing in about three minutes anyway. You can get another cup in Le Touquet"

"I wasn't complaining, I was just... pointing out that it was cold."

"In a non-complaining way?"

Martin pushed his cup away and sighed. "It's difficult to know what to say, isn't it? _"Sorry about your dad, Arthur, even though he was a bastard"_."

"You say, _"Sorry about your dad, Arthur."_ It's really not hard."

"Well, yes, of course, and I _did_ say that, obviously, when he first told me. I'm not _entirely_… I just mean, what do you say _now?"_

"You don't say anything. You just listen. I'm sure Arthur is only too aware of his father's shortcomings and doesn't need everyone else reminding him. Eventually he might even be able to come up with an adjective other than "alright" to describe him. I can think of several, can't you?"

A potentially very long list was interrupted by Carolyn, looking rather frazzled.

"Hello, drivers. Slight problem. Arthur's just thrown coffee over Mrs Patterson."

"_Thrown _coffee?"

"You don't mean deliberately?"

"To be frank, Martin, the intentional or otherwise nature of the incident is not my primary concern at the moment."

"Hang on," said Douglas, "I think I saw them arrive - wasn't she wearing a cream linen suit?"

"Yes," said Carolyn stiffly, "She _was_."

"Well, at least it was _cold_ coffee..."

Martin choked on a laugh, and Carolyn glared at him.

"Well, I'm glad you both think it's so funny, because I need to borrow some cash. Open your wallets and let the moths fly free, I haven't got all day."

"What? What for?"

"Well, as Mrs P so eloquently reminded me, it is her wedding anniversary, a very special day, and she very understandably does not want to spend it wearing a coffee-stained linen suit. The money is to buy herself a new dress. On top of that I have been assured that I will be receiving an extortionate dry cleaning bill some time in the next few days, so that's something else to look forward to."

"Why don't you just tell her to buy a dress and send you the receipt?" asked Martin, reluctantly pulling out his wallet.

Carolyn sighed. "You haven't been to Le Touquet before, have you?"

"No…"

"Well, the shops here are all very expensive. I have no intention of giving Mrs Patterson a blank cheque to buy herself an anniversary present on top of the cost of her dry cleaning bill. Giving her cash means she can't spend more than that amount - and if she does, she'll have to pay for it herself. Come on, cough up, I've got to go and grovel to the Pattersons and then give Arthur a telling-off, and we're supposed to be landing in ten minutes. Is that all you've got? Oh, well, I suppose it will have to do."

She swept back out, leaving Martin spluttering indignantly in her wake.

"That was all my money!"

"And mine. Carolyn better be providing lunch."

"I don't understand why she can't just get her to send a receipt. I mean, technically it's MJN's fault, isn't it? Legally, we wouldn't have a leg to stand on. That's the kind of thing that should be dealt with professionally, with proper paperwork. Not just by handing over a random sum of cash. And another thing; it's not _our_ responsibility to hand over our own money to pay for it, is it? That's the management's responsibility. We're just employees. And what does she mean, give Arthur a telling-off?"

He shot an angry glare in the direction of the galley door, pulled off his headset, and got purposefully to his feet.

"Don't," warned Douglas.

"What?"

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you."

"But – you heard what she said. For God's sake, his dad's just died -"

"Martin. If you only listen to one piece of advice I ever give you…"

"Douglas. I've never listened to a single piece of your advice before. Why would I start now?"

"… don't get involved. I mean it."

Martin pushed open the door to the galley, opened his mouth ready to protest – and stopped dead.

Arthur was sitting slumped in his seat, his arms dangling uselessly by his sides, his face buried in the front of his mother's jacket, while Carolyn stood in front of him, pulling him tightly against her body and stroking his hair. "Oh, my darling, my darling," she murmured softly, "It's alright. It'll be alright."

Feeling as though he had intruded on something terribly intimate, Martin backed out of the room and closed the door as softly as he could behind him.

"Told you," said Douglas, when Martin returned to his seat.

"Yes, alright, Douglas. You were right, same as you always are. Happy now?"

"Well, under the circumstances, no, I wouldn't say I was _happy_."

"_Good,"_ spat Martin, rather nastily. "Prepare for landing."

* * *

On arrival in Le Touquet, Martin left the post-flight checks to Douglas, partly because he was still annoyed with him, but mostly because he was hoping to catch Arthur alone. The galley, however, was empty. He found Carolyn standing at the exit, rifling through her handbag.

"Where's Arthur?"

She shook her head. "I've absolutely no idea. He disappeared as soon as we landed."

"Do you want some help looking for him?"

"No, leave him, he'll have taken himself off somewhere. He used to do that when he was little, when he was upset about something. Go and hide somewhere for a few hours. Keeping out of Gordon's way. He learnt that very quickly. Gordon didn't like noise. Or crying. Or singing. Or children. Or other people."

Martin didn't know what to say. "You're very lucky, with Arthur."

She raised an eyebrow. "You mean, because he's absolutely nothing like his dad?"

"Well… yes. Sorry."

"There's no need to apologise to me. I remind myself to be grateful for it on days like today when Arthur throws coffee over paying customers."

He shot her a sideways glance. "How are _you_ holding up?"

"What do you mean?" she asked sharply.

"Well… you were married to Gordon for, what, twenty years?"

"I am absolutely _fine_, thank you very much. And it was nineteen years, three months, and five days. People get lesser sentences for manslaughter. I haven't wasted a second of my life giving two hoots about him since."

Martin wisely chose to keep quiet.

"What?" she demanded, furiously.

"I didn't say anything!" he protested.

"No, but you were thinking it. Martin, I can assure you I will not be shedding a single tear over That Man's demise. Only two good things ever came out of my marriage to Gordon, and if it wasn't for Arthur, I would be opening a large bottle of champagne to celebrate his no longer being in my life, and never again being able to upset my son. I may still."

"What's the second thing?"

"What?"

"You said _two_ good things… what's the other thing?"

She gave him a magnificently disdainful look. "You're standing in it, _Captain_."

"Oh," said Martin, flushing. "Yes, of course. The plane. Yes."

"Of course, one of those things will most likely bankrupt me, and the other will one day drive me to a nervous breakdown... Who knows? It may even be today!"

Martin gave a rather nervous laugh, and Carolyn glared at him.

"You think I am joking?"

"Er... er... oh, thank God, here's Douglas -"

_"Douglas!"_ barked Carolyn, "About time!"

"I didn't realise you were waiting for me," said Douglas, easily. "Where's Arthur?"

"Gone for a walk," Carolyn told him, briskly. Martin shot her a quizzical look, but she ignored him. "Shall we go? I'm afraid it's just going to be a stale baguette from the supermarche and a wheel of brie for lunch today, since I've had to give all my money to Mrs Patterson."

"All _our_ money," Douglas reminded her. "Shouldn't we wait for him?"

"_You_ can, if you like. I don't particularly wish to spend my entire afternoon standing around on the tarmac of a tinpot little French airfield."

An hour later they were sitting on a bench on the promenade, eating their lunch with frozen fingers, and being buffeted by an icy wind off the Atlantic.

"Well, Martin," said Douglas, sarcastically, "You were right. Le Touquet is _delightful_."

"I'm sure it's a lot nicer in summer."

"I'm sure it is. Unfortunately, the Pattersons have elected to come here in _November_."

"Yes, how thoughtless of them not to have their wedding anniversary at a time of year more convenient for you."

"Well, quite! Who gets married in November, anyway? Miserable time of the year."

"I wouldn't know, Douglas. You're the expert in weddings."

"Oh, stop bickering, can't you?" snapped Carolyn, who was even more short-tempered than usual. "Or I may actually be forced to bang your heads together."

"Couldn't we go and find a nice, warm café somewhere?" Douglas pleaded, "I can't feel my ears."

"We _could_, yes. Of course, there is the slight concern of none of us having any money, but I'm sure that won't be a problem. After all, French waiters are well-known the world over for their friendliness and bonhomie."

"Couldn't you put it on your credit card?" suggested Martin, hopefully.

Carolyn fixed him with a glare that was cold enough to freeze the Atlantic. She pulled out her purse and thrust it at him. "There are five credit cards in there, Martin. If you can find one that isn't maxed out to the hilt, you're welcome to treat yourself to as many warmed-over croissants as you can buy."

Martin declined her offer.

The three of them sank into irritable silence. No-one voiced their concerns aloud, but they were all keeping an eye out for Arthur's bright red puffa jacket amongst the tourists and shoppers. Periodically, one or all of them would silently check their phone, frown, and put it away again.

"Oh, for God's _sake!"_ exclaimed Douglas suddenly, making them all jump.

"What?"

"It's bloody _raining_ now!"

They looked up at the darkening sky.

"No, it isn't," said Carolyn.

Douglas looked at her incredulously. "Well, if it isn't raining, what's this wet stuff falling on our heads?"

"Sleet," said Carolyn, crisply.

"That's it!" exclaimed Douglas, jumping to his feet. "I've had enough. I'm going back to the plane. At least there it's warm and dry and we can get a cup of tea."

The others readily agreed. Martin suspected that the main reason, apart from the bitter wind and their lack of funds, was that they were hoping Arthur would be waiting for them, preferably with hot coffee.

The plane, however, was dark, cold, and deserted, and there was no sign of Arthur anywhere. With more than two hours before they were scheduled to leave, there was nothing else to do but sit and wait. Carolyn muttered something about a headache and disappeared into the cabin, Douglas pulled out a book, and Martin occupied himself playing _Snake_ on his phone. By half past four, with their passengers back on board, drunk on champagne and loaded down with shopping, but still no sign of their missing steward, Carolyn put her head around the door of the flight deck.

"Any news?"

They shook their heads. "Sorry."

"It's twenty to five, Carolyn."

"Thank you, Douglas. I'm quite aware of the time."

"What Douglas is trying to say is that we're scheduled to leave at five."

"A fact of which I am also very much aware, Martin."

"What are we going to do if he doesn't turn up by five?"

"I'm sure it won't come to that."

"We need to know, Carolyn," Douglas told her, "If we're going to be delayed, we need to tell ATC _right now_."

"We are _not _going to be delayed. We will be leaving at five o'clock, as scheduled."

"We can't _leave_ him here!" protested Martin.

"I _know_ we can't leave him here!" bellowed Carolyn, furiously. "We can't miss our flight time either! Oh, I'm going to _kill_ him!"

She checked her phone again, and the others did the same without her needing to ask. The silence that followed told them everything they needed to know.

"Has anyone considered," began Martin falteringly, "That maybe something's happened to him?"

"Shut _up_, Martin!" snapped Douglas and Carolyn together.

"Alright!" protested Martin, rather hurt. "I was only saying…"

"You're not helping, Martin," admonished Douglas. "Carolyn, I'm sorry, but you really do need to make a decision _now_."

Carolyn sighed and rubbed her temples. "Yes, alright. I suppose we'll just have to -"

She stopped abruptly and looked over her shoulder, then vanished into the galley.

Martin couldn't see into the galley from his seat, but he could hear their conversation through the open door.

"_Arthur!_ Where have you been? We were about to send out a search party!"

"Sorry, Mum," said Arthur's voice, sounding surprisingly cheerful. "I was playing crazy golf and forgot the time."

For a few moments even Carolyn was rendered speechless. "You were… playing crazy golf?"

"Yeah! Why didn't you tell me there was a massive crazy golf course in Le Touquet?"

"Must have slipped my mind," muttered Carolyn.

"It was brilliant! They had _three_ windmills!"

"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. However, we are scheduled to leave, ooh, _now_, so please sit down, shut up, strap in, and do not leave this galley for at least the next sixty minutes under pain of death."

"But Mum, the flight's only fifty minutes."

"Why does everyone keep telling me things I already know? Yes, dear heart, I know the flight is only fifty minutes, but I want to make quite sure the Pattersons have not only left the plane, but also the airfield, and preferably _Fitton_, before you have the chance to spill anything else on them and cost me even more money."

"Can I go to the toilet first?

"No, you'll have to sit there squirming for the next hour."

"Oh. OK, then."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake! Of _course_ you can go to the toilet!" Her voice softened. "Have you eaten anything today?"

"No."

"Then you have my permission to open the emergency biscuits. Here is the key; please return it to me forthwith. This is a one-time offer, so make the most of it."

Carolyn's head appeared around the door of the flight deck again, and the pilots hurriedly pretended they hadn't been listening.

"Alright, drivers, we are good to go. I'm going to go and see what the happy couple have spent my money on."

"_Our_ money", muttered Douglas, but not until she had closed the door and was well out of earshot.

The pilots exchanged looks of stunned incredulity.

"Brilliant," chuckled Douglas, shaking his head in disbelief. _"Crazy golf…"_

"Never mind that," Martin exclaimed, indignantly, "There are _emergency biscuits?_"

They passed the rest of the flight reminiscing about some of their worst ever stopovers.

"… and then there was the time you were arrested in Boston on anti-terrorism charges…"

"That was a misunderstanding, Douglas, as well you know."

"Yes, that's right. It was you misunderstanding that US airport security officers aren't known for their strong grasp of sarcasm…"

"Alright," shouted Martin, over Douglas's laughter. "What about Helsinki? Carolyn's dreadful sister and Arthur's… chocolate… cake… thing."

"Oh, God, yes! We were in Finland a total of half an hour and in that time we witnessed a family screaming match, and a horrible woman get a cake in the chops. A moment I shall treasure even on my deathbed."

They both laughed out loud.

"How much did Arthur pay to get that cake through Customs again?"

"Seventy-five Euros. It was worth every penny, though. I'd have happily paid _double_ that just for the look on Aunty Ruth's face in the millisecond before it hit her."

"And… and... Arthur's fishcake! With the cigarettes in it instead of birthday candles!"

They were both almost weeping with laughter now.

"I don't know how Carolyn kept a straight face!"

"Practice?" suggested Douglas.

Martin shook his head. "Poor Arthur. Between his dad and his aunt and that little shit of a cousin, he really does have a terrible family."

They stopped laughing. Suddenly things didn't seem quite so funny.

"Have you spoken to him today?" asked Martin.

"Haven't had the chance."

"Me neither. He – Carolyn says he's not really talking about it."

"Well... I'm sure he will when he's ready. I mean, he's not usually the silent, introspective type, our Arthur, is he?"

"I know, and that's what worries me. How long have you been working with him now?"

"Too long. Twelve years. Although he was seventeen when I first met him; he wanted to come and meet the pilots. And the pilots, as you can imagine, were _absolutely delighted_ to meet him."

"And he's never talked about his dad in all that time?"

"No, but then it was a difficult divorce, and I got the impression he just wasn't around anymore."

"And you never thought to ask?"

Douglas sighed. "Martin. When you see something that looks like it might be a hornets' nest, you don't poke a stick in it just to make sure. Besides, Carolyn made it quite clear the subject was off-limits. Have _you_ ever asked him about it?"

"No," admitted Martin. He glanced in the direction of the closed door to the galley. "He seems to be taking it really hard, though."

"Well, what did you expect?" exclaimed Douglas, incredulously. "It's his dad!"

"Yeah, I know, but..." Martin gave a helpless shrug. "I mean, you met him... and like you said, he wasn't around much..."

"Yes, and now he never will be. Don't you think that might be one of the reasons Arthur's so upset?"

Martin flushed. "Oh. Well, I suppose... I hadn't really thought of it like that." He glanced towards the galley door again. "I feel kind of bad sitting here talking about him, while he's in there on his own."

"Hmm," said Douglas, thoughtfully. "I think I may have just had a brilliant idea..."

He leaned forward and pressed the intercom.

_"This is an urgent request for Mr Arthur Shappey. Arthur Shappey to the flight deck immediately please. Do not bring tea. I repeat, do not bring tea."_

Arthur didn't quite come into the flight deck, just hovered in the doorway. The joy of crazy golf had provided only a temporary distraction from his grief, and now he looked, once more, as though he would never smile again.

"Arthur!" exclaimed Douglas, in his cheeriest voice. "How _splendid_ to see you!"

"I'm sorry the tea was cold," Arthur said, defensively. "I can make some more, though."

Douglas waved a dismissive hand. "Never mind the tea; that's not why we asked you in here."

A small sigh. "What do you want, then?"

"We're just playing a little game and thought you might like to join in."

"I'm not really in the mood, Douglas."

"Ah, come on, we're stuck for an answer and need your help."

Martin glanced at him approvingly. Appealing to Arthur's inbuilt desire to help people was a very smart move.

"Well… I dunno…"

"Good lad! Knew you'd come up trumps. So the game is, Airports and Airfields of Great Britain in alphabetical order. I started with Aberdeen, then Martin chipped in with Bristol - which, if you remember, has a _fabulous _suspension bridge - and then I went slightly off-piste with Colonsay. That's a tiny island off the coast of Scotland, and it's more of an airstrip than an airport, but for the purposes of this game it definitely counts, especially as I then allowed Martin to have Duxford, which _was_ an airfield, during the _Second World War_, but is now a _museum_. Then I went for Edinburgh, sticking with the Scottish theme and also thinking one step ahead where I could go for Glasgow when we got to G - just a little extra challenge to make the game more interesting for myself. And this is where we need _your_ help, Arthur. We're stuck on F. Or rather, _Martin_ is, because it's his go."

Martin glared at Douglas. Even when playing a game he'd apparently just made up on the spot, he still had to get in a little dig at Martin.

"So, any ideas, Arthur? Airports and Airfields of Great Britain, beginning with F?"

"I don't know," said Arthur, looking rather overwhelmed.

"Well, have a little think. Take your time. We're in no rush. After all, I've already got my G answer lined up. Oh, and then there's I for Inverness too! Golly, I impress myself sometimes."

"You impress yourself _all _the time," said Martin, dryly. "Good luck with getting K, though."

"Well, I _am_ rather impressive. And, hmm, Kirkwall?"

"Damn."

"And then of course there's Mull, Oban… er…"

_"Ha!"_ crowed Martin, "And then it's Q, and there aren't any airports in Scotland beginning with Q! Not so impressive _now_, eh, Douglas?"

"Well, there's still plenty of time. After all, we haven't had an answer for F yet. Speaking of which; any luck, Arthur?"

"I'm not even supposed to be here," said Arthur, defensively. "Mum said I wasn't to leave the galley."

"Alright," said Douglas easily, "Just answer this one question for us, then you can go."

"I can't think of anything."

"You can't think of _any_ British airports or airfields beginning with F?" Martin chipped in. "Any at all?"

"Here's a clue," said Douglas, "We flew from there this morning."

"Here's another clue," offered Martin, trying not to laugh, "You _live_ there."

Arthur looked from one to the other. "Oh. I see."

"By Jove, I think he's got it!"

"I think he has!"

"Yes. It's a joke. You're making fun of me. Very funny."

"What? No, Arthur, you've got it wrong, we just wanted -"

"No, I don't think I have got it wrong. OK, I'm gonna go now. Thanks."

_"Arthur!"_

"Oh, well _done_, Douglas," said Martin sarcastically, when the door to the galley had closed behind Arthur.

"Oh, it's all _my_ fault, is it?"

"Well, it was your idea."

"It was just supposed to be a bit of fun, that's all," muttered Douglas, visibly rattled. "I thought he'd get it straight away. I just…"

He tailed off, and for several minutes neither of them said anything, just sat in tense, guilty silence. Then Douglas threw his hat down onto the control panel, said forcefully, "Sod this!", and had jumped to his feet and wrenched open the door to the galley before Martin could even open his mouth.

He was back within a few minutes and sat down again without a word.

"What did you say?" asked Martin, curiously, when it became obvious that Douglas was not going to elaborate.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?!"

"I said I was sorry, and I gave him a hug."

"That's _all?_"

A shrug. "That's enough, isn't it?"

Martin frowned. Why did everyone else find it so easy to hug other people, when he found it so difficult?

Douglas rubbed his face wearily. "God! What an awful day! How about a game to make the last twenty minutes go a bit faster?"

"Alright. How about the one we were already playing? _Glasgow_."

"What do you mean; _Glasgow?_"

"Airports and Airfields of Great Britain beginning with the letter G: _Glasgow_."

"But it's not your turn!" bristled Douglas, indignantly. "Anyway, Glasgow was _my_ answer."

"Well, Arthur guessed F, so I haven't had my turn yet. I'm taking it now. _Glasgow._"

"Yes, except Arthur _didn't_ guess F, did he?"

"Er… yes he did, Douglas."

"Did you actually hear him say it?"

"No, but… he obviously got it! It's the town he lives in! We flew from there this morning!"

"Well, we can certainly _assume_ that he got it, but as he didn't _actually_ say it out loud, we'll never know, will we?"

"Oh, well, if you want to go down that path, I didn't _actually_ say Bristol or Duxford, and you didn't _actually_ say Aberdeen, Colonsay, or Edinburgh!"

"No, but we _would_ have done."

"And Arthur _would _have said Fitton."

"Alright. What's your point?"

"I think we should start again, from the beginning. Play the game properly."

Douglas sighed wearily. "You do know it's not a real game? Fine, you can start this time if you want."

"Oh, no! I'm not getting lumbered with Q, thank you very much! You can start. But you have to pick different airports, not ones you've already said."

"_Fine._ Anglesey."

"Oh, we're starting already? Er… er… Birmingham!"

"Cardiff."

"Er… Der… der… Dundee!"

"Exeter."

"Fitton! Ah-ha-ha! I can _say_ it, you see, because Arthur _didn't_ say it the first time round!"

Douglas rolled his eyes. "Gatwick."

"Ha-ha-ha-"

"Something funny?"

"Oh, shut up. Heh-heh-heh-"

"Here's a clue; it's the busiest airport in Europe.

"Oh! _Heathrow!_ I'd have got that without your help, you know."

"I'm sure you would. Islay."

"Hang on, isn't that a whisky?"

"It is, but it also happens to be an airport. In much the same way that Dundee is also a _cake_."

"Fine, I suppose you can have it, then."

"Very generous of you."

"…"

"Oh, dear, Martin, stuck on J?"

"No!"

Douglas waited.

"..."

"Perhaps it might help if you thought of some British towns beginning with the letter J, and from there extrapolated that one of them might have an airport."

"Yes, obviously that's what I _was_ doing, thank you, Douglas. _Err_…"

"For example, Jarrow."

"…"

"Or Jaywick."

"…"

"Or John O'Groats -"

"_John O'Groats!_ I was literally about to say that! There must be an airport at John O'Groats!"

"Must there?"

"Is-isn't there?"

"I'm afraid not. In fact, there _are_ no British airports beginning with the letter J."

"_What?_ Why did you invent a game where you knew we couldn't get any further than the ninth go?"

"Well, funnily enough, when I think of an idea for a game, I don't play the entire game in my head first. It would kind of defeat the purpose of it being a _game_."

"Hang on – how do you _know_ there are no British airports beginning with the letter J? Did you... did you look it up on your phone? Did you look it up on your phone when you _went into the galley to supposedly comfort Arthur?_ Oh, my God! Were you checking your phone over his shoulder while you were giving him a hug? Oh, _Douglas_. That's a new low, even for you."

"No, I was not! What do you take me for? And what do you mean; even for me? As it happens, I was about to return to the flight deck when I remembered that I hadn't been able to come up with an answer for Q, which annoyed me, because I don't like not knowing things. Anyway, it transpires that there _is_ no British airport beginning with the letter Q, but it doesn't really matter, because there isn't one beginning with the letter J, either. And then I realised that if we played the game again, and I could persuade you to let me start, I'd still win because you wouldn't be able to get any further than J."

Martin was outraged. "That's – that's cheating!"

"It's called a strategy. If you want to win, it helps to have one. You should try it sometime."

"Cheating or winning?"

Douglas pretended to consider for a moment. "Either?"

* * *

When they landed at Fitton, Martin was the last off the plane, Douglas having left him to do the post-flight checks, probably in punishment for Martin having left _him_ to do them in Le Touquet. Everyone else had gone. He locked up Gerti, turned up his collar against the wind, and headed for the car park.

Arthur hadn't gone. He was waiting by Martin's van, kicking at the gravel like a sulky schoolboy, and clutching some sort of hideous bright green furry thing that was possibly supposed to be a frog; it was hard to tell.

"Oh, hello," said Martin, surprised. "I thought you'd gone home."

"My car's at your house."

"Oh. Of course. I forgot. Do you need a lift?"

"Yes, please."

In the van neither of them spoke for several minutes as Martin negotiated the numerous roundabouts on the way into Fitton town centre.

"You've not had a brilliant day, have you?" he said, sympathetically.

Arthur made a noise of acknowledgement but didn't speak.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

A slight pause, then, "No."

"You do know we weren't making fun of you, Arthur? We just wanted you to join in the game."

"I know," said Arthur, faintly.

"Well.. good. That's... good. Because we weren't. We just thought – well, Douglas thought, it was his idea – that a game might be a good distraction for you, that's all. Better than sitting in the galley on your own, anyway."

Arthur stared straight ahead through the windscreen and didn't say anything.

When they got to Martin's house he turned off the engine and they sat there not moving.

"Do you want to come in for a cup of tea or something?"

"Umm… I'm gonna… I'm gonna go, actually." He sounded on the verge of tears again.

"Well, if you're sure. 'Night, then."

"'Night," mumbled Arthur, getting out of the van, crossing the street quickly and fishing around in the bottom of his bag for his car keys. He tried to open the driver's door, but it had jammed shut.

Martin watched him from the front gate of his house. "You alright?" he called across the road.

"Yep," said Arthur shortly.

He walked around to the passenger side and climbed across into the driver's seat. Martin, not knowing what else to do, waved, and went inside. He put his bag down on the sofa and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. It wasn't until he was halfway through his coffee that it occurred to him he hadn't heard the sound of a car engine starting up. He went back into the front room and pushed aside the net curtain.

Arthur was still sitting in the front seat of of his car staring into space. Martin watched him surreptitiously from behind the curtain for several minutes, then pulled out his phone and texted, _"Sure you don't want to come in for that tea?" _He saw Arthur glance to his side at the sound of the phone, but he still didn't move.

Martin put the kettle on again, made two cups of tea, one with three sugars, and took them out to the car, startling his friend when he knocked on the passenger side window.

"I thought that since you didn't want to come in for that tea, I'd bring it out here."

Arthur moved his bag onto the back seat so Martin could sit down, and the thing that was possibly supposed to be a frog fell into the passenger footwell. Before he could pick it up or Martin could get in, however, Arthur's phone rang, and he scrambled to answer it hurriedly.

"Hello, Arthur Shappey speaking! _Oh_. Hello. Yeah... Yeah... Oh. Right. I see. Well, if that's what... OK... Thanks... Yeah... 'Bye..."

He pressed _End Call_ and sat staring through the windscreen, still clutching the phone, hardly seeming to notice Martin standing by the open passenger door with two hot mugs of tea.

Martin coughed pointedly. "Tea, Arthur?"

"Mm? Oh, yeah. Sorry."

He took the cup from Martin's hand and Martin climbed awkwardly into the passenger seat, careful not to spill his own drink. They sat in silence for several minutes, Martin sipping his tea, and Arthur lost in his own thoughts.

"Was that your mum?" Martin asked, eventually.

"What?"

"On the phone. Was that your mum?"

A shake of the head. "No, it was Hayley."

Martin frowned. "Who's Hayley?"

"Dad's wife. New wife. Well, not _new_; they've been married ten years, I mean new compared to Mum."

"What did she want?"

"She, er… she wanted to tell me she's set a date for the funeral."

"Oh. When is it?"

"A week on Friday. The 24th."

"Oh," said Martin again.

"Hayley doesn't want Mum to go to the funeral," said Arthur dully. "She thinks it would be _inappropriate._"

"_What?_ She can't do that!"

A shrug. "I don't think Mum would want to go anyway."

Martin was reminded of Carolyn's wish to toast her ex-husband's demise with champagne. "Well, maybe not, but she'd go to support you, surely?"

"I don't -" said Arthur suddenly. "I don't think I want to go either. No, I don't. I don't want to go. I really, _really_ don't want to go."

"Nobody _wants_ to go to a funeral, Arthur. I didn't want to go to my dad's funeral either, but it's just something you have to do."

"Why?"

"Well… because it's your dad's funeral. You can't miss your dad's funeral."

"Why can't I?"

Martin gaped at him. "Because... because… well, I can't imagine missing _my _dad's funeral."

"It's not the same though, is it?" said Arthur, with a bitterness that Martin had never heard from him before. "Your dad - it's not the same."

Martin opened his mouth and closed it again. "But… it's your last chance to say goodbye."

"I know. I know that."

"Is this because your Mum won't be there? I'm sure if you spoke to Hayley and explained things…"

"It's not because Mum won't be there. I just don't want to go, that's all."

"Well…" said Martin, hesitantly, "I could come, if you want…"

Arthur looked up, surprised. "Really?"

Martin was regretting the offer already. "If you want. I mean, you don't _have_ to, if you don't… I'm sure you've got other friends you'd rather go with… I wouldn't be offended… it's obviously up to you... but… well, the offer's there if you want it," he finished, lamely.

Arthur looked rather stunned. "Thanks, Skip. That's really nice of you."

"You're welcome."

"I'm still not going."

"But... you won't be on your own. I'll come with you."

"I won't be on my own because I'm _not_ _going_."

A long silence followed this fervent pronouncement. When Arthur finally spoke, his voice was cracked, as though he was trying to hold back the tears.

"Did you... I mean... how did... when your... when your d-dad died... how did you… f-f-" He swallowed hard and looked away.

"How did I feel?" suggested Martin, kindly.

Arthur nodded, unable to trust himself to speak.

"Devastated. Stunned. Hollow. The same as you feel now."

"Yeah," said Arthur, miserably. "The same, yeah."

Another long silence.

"I think..." he said, finally, "I think… I have mixed feelings."

"Well, that's understandable."

"Is it?"

"Of course."

"Right," said Arthur, doubtfully.

More silence.

"Because it's… it's like…" He took a deep breath. "When Mum and Dad split up, I was really upset, obviously, but… I sort of felt… I felt…"

"Relieved?" suggested Martin, then immediately regretted it. "Sorry."

"Yeah! _No!_ Yeah… Sort of. I used to dread coming home for the holidays, because Dad would be there, and I could never do anything right with Dad. He was away from home a lot, for work, and it was always better when he wasn't there, when it was just me and Mum. I didn't want them to split up, but I was glad he wasn't there anymore. Mixed feelings, you see. And I think that might make me a really horrible person because you're not supposed to have mixed feelings when your dad dies, are you? You're supposed to be really sad, like you were when your dad died. You're still sad he died now, aren't you?"

Martin blinked. "Yes."

"Yeah, of course you are, because that's how you're supposed to feel, you're not supposed to be relieved. Which I'm not, obviously. I'm not saying I am, because I'm not. I'm not relieved." Another sigh. "But... I'm not... I don't think I'm sad, either. Or not as sad as I'm supposed to be."

"You're not supposed to be anything, Arthur. Whatever you feel about him is alright."

Arthur's face crumpled and his eyes instantly filled with tears. "Yeah. It's not though, is it?"

Martin didn't know what to say. All of this was way beyond him.

"Like, the other night, after I found out... _about Dad_... I didn't know what to do, so I got in my car and just drove around for a bit. I ended up sitting in my car at the airfield. I was thinking about the last time I saw him. You remember, you were there."

"St Petersburg? That was the last time you saw him? But that was nearly a year ago!"

Arthur nodded soberly. "Yep. Anyway, I was sitting in my car, drinking the brandy - you know, for the shock - and I started getting really angry. If Mum had had to sell Gerti, MJN would have gone bankrupt. I'd have lost my job. Mum would probably have lost the house. I'm not stupid, I've heard her on the phone to the bank. We'd both have been homeless. Dad didn't care about any of that. He didn't even _think_ about it. He flew halfway round the world to get his own back on Mum. He didn't even want the plane for himself, he just didn't want her to have it. They've been separated for _fifteen_ _years_. He's been married to Hayley for _ten_. After all that time, he still hated Mum that much. Do you know what made me really angry?"

Martin shook his head, but Arthur didn't wait for an answer.

"He could have helped. If not for Mum's sake, then for mine. He could have got his engineers to fix the engine. He's got money; he's got loads of it. He could easily have afforded it. He could have _helped_. And that's another thing, where do you get an engine for an old plane like Gerti? You'd have to order it specially, wouldn't you? It would take a couple of days, at least. So he must have had it already. He must have brought it with him. He must have planned it for months. Years, even. When I realised that – it was a few days after we got back – I asked Mum, do you think he knew I'd have lost my job? I just couldn't believe he'd do something like that on purpose. He'd had all that time to plan what he was going to do, he'd gone out and bought an engine, and it never once occurred to him that I'd lose my job. Or maybe it did occur to him, but he just didn't _care_. And even worse, what about you and Douglas? I wouldn't expect him to be nice to _us_, but what have _you_ ever done to him to deserve that? He could have _helped, _and instead... I mean, I _love_ my job, I love getting to meet new people every day and help them, I love working with you and Douglas and Mum, and he _knows_ that, even if he thinks it's a stupid job -"

"_Does_ he think that, though? Your Mum was a stewardess when they met, wasn't she?"

"I _know_ that's what he thinks because he _told_ me. I rang him when I passed the cabin crew course, when I was eighteen. I thought he'd be pleased. I don't know why, it's not like he has anything nice to say, _ever_..." He put on the worst approximation of Gordon's Australian accent Martin had ever heard: _"It's a job for slappers and poofs."_

"Nice," said Martin.

Arthur didn't say anything for a long time. "No. No, he isn't, though. Nice is exactly what he isn't. He's not a nice person, my Dad. _Wasn't_…" He swallowed the word and tailed off.

"Arthur -"

"I mean, he was quite happy to lose four people their jobs and make me and Mum homeless. That's not something a nice person does, is it? Yeah, he was, he was _happy_ about it. He never cared about us, he never cared about me, why should I care that he's dead? I'm g-glad he's dead, actually. I'm _glad_. Maybe I'm not a very nice person either. Maybe that's the one thing we've got in common."

"Oh, Arthur, you're not. You're the nicest, kindest, sweetest person I know. You haven't got a nasty bone in your body."

Arthur wiped his wet eyes with the sleeve of his coat. "I feel like I'm leaking," he said miserably.

"Do you want me to go in the house and get you a tissue?"

Arthur shook his head. "I'm not really glad he's dead."

"I know."

"I just said it because I was angry. I didn't mean it."

"I _know_, Arthur."

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

A helpless shrug.

"I don't think I've ever seen you angry before, Arthur. Well, apart from that time you threw a cake at your aunt."

They both managed a weak laugh at the memory.

"She was being nasty to Mum."

"Yes. And that's the sort of thing that makes you angry."

"Yeah. And Dad's n - not very nice to everyone, so thinking about him makes me angry."

Martin shook his head. Even now, Arthur still couldn't bring himself to say anything worse about his father than "not very nice".

"You do know you're nothing like him, don't you?" he said aloud. "Nothing at all."

Yeah," said Arthur flatly, "Everyone says that."

"Well… that's a _good_ thing, surely?"

"Yeah.. except... I dunno, I always thought maybe if I _was_, you know, more like him… I mean, maybe that's why he didn't... I don't think he... I don't think he l -" He choked on the word. "_Liked_ me very much."

"I'm sure that's not true," said Martin, dismayed. He sounded unconvincing even to himself.

"I don't think he liked _people_," said Arthur, softly. "Well, no, that's not true. He was... Mum used to say he was charming to strangers. You saw how he was in St Petersburg. You liked him, didn't you?"

"Uh - well -"

"Of course you did, because _everyone_ likes him, when they first meet him. I used to wonder, is that the real him and he's just different with us, or is he pretending when he meets other people? And I don't understand how you can be two different people like that, because I'm just one person, and I'm always the same person, aren't I? Mum used to say, _"Just be yourself, Arthur,"_ and I always thought, well I _am_ me, so how can I be someone else?" He frowned. "But then I suppose Dad was someone else with us, so maybe it _is_ possible…"

He fell silent for a few moments, then suddenly exclaimed, "_Oh!"_ so loudly it made Martin jump.

"What's the matter?"

"I've got the answer!"

"What answer?"

"Airports and Airfields of Great Britain beginning with F!"

"Go on, then."

"Farnborough!"

He looked so pleased with himself that Martin couldn't help smiling. Oh, Arthur's brain was a wonder. They'd just landed the plane at Fitton, driven through Fitton on the way to Martin's house in the centre of Fitton, and Arthur was about to drive himself home, to his house on the outskirts of Fitton, where he'd lived his entire life. And it _still_ hadn't occurred to him that the obvious answer to Airports and Airfields of Great Britain beginning with F, was _Fitton._

"Yes," he conceded, "That is indeed an Airport of Great Britain beginning with F. Well done, Arthur."

Keen to keep Arthur distracted, he picked up the green furry toy at his feet and examined it.

"So... what's this… green thing, then?"

"Hmm?" said Arthur. "Oh, I won it playing crazy golf."

"Yeah, I sort of guessed that. What's it supposed to _be_, though?"

"Mm… I think it's a frog?" He did not sound convinced.

"Based on…?"

"Well, it's green."

"It's green. Uh-huh. It's got a _tail_, though."

Arthur just stared back at him blankly.

"Never mind," sighed Martin. "So that's what you were doing all day? Playing crazy golf?"

"Yeah!" exclaimed Arthur, suddenly animated, "They had an _amazing_ crazy golf course; it had _three_ windmills! I'm surprised Mum didn't mention it, to be honest. She knows how much I like crazy golf."

"Hmm," said Martin, dryly. "That _is_ surprising."

"I only found it by accident 'cos I got lost on the way into town," Arthur went on. "I was just going to play one round on my own, but then these three old ladies needed an extra person to make up a foursome, and I got roped in."

"_French_ ladies?"

"Yep."

"You… spent the afternoon playing crazy golf with three elderly French women?"

"Yeah. They were really nice."

"Can you speak French, Arthur?" asked Martin, rather suspecting that he already knew the answer.

"No-oo. Not at all."

"And could they speak English?"

A shake of the head and a laugh. "Nooo…"

"So how did you communicate?"

"Well… mainly by _pointing_."

"And when you say they were _old_ ladies, how old exactly? Your Mum's age?"

"No, much older than Mum. Proper old ladies. With hats on."

Martin shook his head in disbelief. Later, the mental image this conjured up would make him laugh out loud at in his sleep. "Brilliant," he said.

"It was, though! They were great! Although they couldn't pronounce my name properly; they kept calling me Ar-_toor_."

"To be fair, I think that is how they pronounce it in France. It's a French name. _Artur_. Without the H."

"Wow, Skip, I didn't know that. I always thought it was an English name, after King Arthur."

"I expect it was originally, but it's a French name now as well. You know, like John in French is Jean, J-E-A-N, and in Spanish it's Juan, J-U-A-N. Martin's a French name too."

"How do they pronounce it?"

"Uh… Mar-_tan_."

"Wow," said Arthur again. "And what about Douglas?"

"Well, I don't think Douglas is a French name, but I suppose they'd probably pronounce it _Doog_-lah. With a silent S."

"D_oog_-lah?"

"Doog-lah."

"Doog-lah," repeated Arthur, in wonder. "That's funny! Like the dog from the Magic Roundabout!"

They both laughed, then Arthur stopped abruptly and frowned. He pressed his forehead into the steering wheel and let out a low moan. "_Oww…_"

"You alright?" asked Martin, alarmed.

"Can't get rid of this headache… had it a couple of days..."

"Does it feel like your head's trapped in a vice, basically all the time?"

Arthur lifted his head from the steering wheel again and stared at him. "Yeah… how did you know?"

"When my dad died, I felt like my head was going to explode. It's... it's something to do with crying all the time, I think. Your sinuses get all blocked. If it helps, it got better after the funeral. It's just that first week or so, when your head's all over the place."

It occurred to him that Arthur's head was probably rather more all over the place than Martin's had been in the same situation. Martin had felt stunned, devastated, sad, hollow… all those things you'd expect to feel when your dad died after a protracted two year battle with cancer. What he hadn't felt was angry at his father, or in any way doubtful that his father _liked_ him, let alone loved him. He couldn't imagine how you would even begin to deal with those kinds of feelings.

"Arthur…? I - I'm just thinking aloud here, but… if you _really _don't want to go to the funeral..."

"I _don't,_" said Arthur, firmly.

"Well… maybe you could go out somewhere for the day instead? Somewhere in the country, or… I don't know… Anything's got to be better than sitting around at home thinking about it. Only if you want to, of course..."

Arthur didn't answer for a long time. "Where would we go?" he asked eventually.

Martin couldn't help noticing the "we". He was starting to get an awful sinking feeling about this already.

"Where would you like to go?"

"I don't know. You say somewhere."

Martin thought for a moment. "Tell, you what," he said, "If you change your mind and decide to go to the funeral -"

"I won't."

"- but if you do, that's absolutely fine. I can come with you, or not come with you, whatever you want. But if you still don't want to go, call me and I'll come and pick you up. We can drive down to Shoreham Airport. It's a fantastic little Art Deco airport in Sussex. We can have lunch and watch the planes come in. It's not far from the sea either, so we could even have a stroll on the beach, if it's a nice day."

He inwardly cursed himself. _A nice day!_ Oh, yes, the day of Arthur's dad's funeral. Of _course _it wasn't going to be a _nice day!_ For God's _sake_, Martin!

Arthur, however, didn't seem to notice. "That's a _brilliant_ idea, Skip!"

_No, it isn't, _thought Martin_. It's a terrible idea._

"Maybe we could have an ice-cream?" suggested Arthur, hopefully.

"Yes, if you want."

"Great!" exclaimed Arthur. He sounded almost cheerful. "I'm quite looking forward to Friday now!"

"Oh," said Martin, weakly. "That's… that's... great!"

Oh, _God_. This wasn't just a terrible idea, it was the stupidest idea in the entire history of stupid ideas. Arthur was going to miss his dad's funeral, something he would regret for the rest of his life, and it would all be Martin's fault for giving him an escape route. Arthur was never going to forgive him. Or worse, Arthur _would_ forgive him – because he was _Arthur _– but Martin would never be able to forgive himself.

* * *

**Notes:**

There really _is _an 18 hole crazy golf course in Le Touquet. I set the story there purely because I knew it was a day trip destination for rich people with private planes (I grew up near the aforementioned Shoreham Airport, and Le Touquet was one of the popular destinations), and only found out about the crazy golf course after the fact. It seemed like serendipity.

Next chapter: Two Men In A Van. It's the day of Arthur's dad's funeral, and Martin tries to persuade Arthur to change his mind.

Hope you liked it and please do let me know what you thought of this chapter and the story so far. Reviews always make my day! Thank you.

Shappeybunny x


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